


what a heavenly way to die

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Male Character, Feelings Realization, Gay Male Character, Lesbian Character, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Blood warms Draco's knuckles, though there is very little of it. Weasley’s lip has split open, a small tear near the center of his cupid’s bow. Weasley wipes at his mouth, and it’s as though the frustration, the unimaginable weight of his fury, boils over. Draco sees nothing but clarity and intention in Weasley’s wide blue eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he is reminded of himself.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	what a heavenly way to die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kanxie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanxie/gifts).



> i apologize for the annoying mistakes in events/chronology.............i haven't finished any of the books, so i've had to rely on the movies to patch up the gaps in my knowledge. most of the dialogue in this fic comes straight from the movies, as the intention was to show draco's development/behind-the-scenes thoughts from year one to eight rather than construct an entire new storyline. therefore, while it respects canon, i begin to diverge a little bit around the four year mark. this is the first time i've ever written a serious, fleshed-out fanfic, so please be nice!!! thank you to bear for the prompt!!!! i love u! i hope you enjoy this <3

Draco Malfoy can see Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, just a few paces beside him. He’s not quite sure what he feels, but he remembers his Father’s advice and knows that he must befriend Potter, or, at the very least, make an attempt to do so. He nudges Goyle, who prods Crabbe, and they make their way over. 

“Is it true, then?” Draco says, without preamble, “What they’re saying on the train?”

Potter turns to look at him, his bright green eyes wide and searing behind his wireframe glasses. Draco continues, “Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts!”

He is met with silence, not only from Potter, but also from the boy at his side. He pays him no mind, and rushes to say, “This is Crabbe and Goyle. And I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

There is a choked sound, like a laugh that’s been hurriedly swallowed, from the redhead by Potter. Draco feels an immediate, familiar spark of annoyance, or perhaps anger, shoot through him. It is brutal in its swiftness. “Think my name’s funny, do you?” 

He regards the boy with revulsion that becomes increasingly palpable. “I don’t need to ask yours. Red hair and a hand-me-down robe. You must be a Weasley,” he spits.

He shifts his attention back to Potter once he is satisfied with the downcast turn that overtakes Weasley’s face. “You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” He offers Potter his hand, a small but self-assured smile on his face.

Potter regards Draco’s hand for a moment before looking up to meet his eyes. “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”

Draco is unsure of how to respond. He closes his outstretched hand into a tight fist before he lets it drop. He can feel Weasley’s greasy, triumphant grin boring into him, but he doesn’t dare turn his head. Draco’s face is burning with irritation and humiliation—nearly every first year bore witness to this horrifying encounter. “I’d be careful if I were you, Potter. Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents.”

His embarrassment hums beneath every inch of his skin, and the threat sits sour and acidic on his tongue. Before Potter or Weasley can open their mouths, Professor McGonagall appears behind Draco and taps his shoulder with a yellowing roll of parchment. Draco’s can feel red heat engulf his face as he regards her. She doesn’t utter a single word, but she gives him the kind of look that he is beginning to become accustomed to.

He throws Potter a final, seething glare before he retreats back the way he came, Crabbe and Goyle at either side. 

“We’re ready for you now. Follow me,” McGonagall says. The heavy, ornate doors to the Great Hall fold in on themselves, gliding open for McGonagall and the children that trail behind her.

The first thing Draco notices is how gargantuan the Great Hall is—the ceiling extends so far above his head that he can scarcely see it end. It resembles the night sky, an incredible amalgam of navy sky and yellow constellations. There are large, striking candles floating above them at intermittent distances, and the soft glow they cast bathes the Hall in a shimmering amber light. Four long tables, parallel to one another, populate the Hall. The older children are already seated, and Draco realizes that each table corresponds to one of the four houses. He can see several redheads, no doubt the older Weasley boys, sitting with the other Gryffindors. He nudges Goyle, and they continue to walk towards the back of the room, where the fifth and final table, reserved solely for the professors, is situated.

McGonagall stops by a particularly embellished chair, where Headmaster Dumbledore sits. In front of him, Draco spies a stool sporting the famed Sorting Hat. It is brown and weathered, but the sight of it reignites some of the energy that Draco had had. The anger from his encounter with Potter and Weasley doesn’t quite leave him, but the bolt of eagerness that he feels is undeniable.

McGonagall turns to the group of wide-eyed, eager children, and says, “When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses.” She picks up the Sorting Hat before squinting at the parchment, no doubt containing the list of all their names. “Abott, Hannah?”

Draco doesn’t recognize the name. She’s a small, pudgy girl with big brown eyes and long, golden hair. She is sorted into Hufflepuff, which pulls a disparaging smile onto Draco’s face. She looks exactly like the mousy, do-gooder type, and he knows she’ll fit right in.

“Granger, Hermione,” continues McGonagall. A slender girl with a full head of mane-like, frizzy hair steps forward. She is quite clearly terrified, but there is intent in her gaze, quiet and understated.

Weasley and Potter are huddled close together near the front of the gathering. As Granger steps up to the stool and McGonagall refers to the parchment, Draco overhears Weasley go, “Mental, that one, I’m tellin’ you.” Almost involuntarily, he grins at the absurdity of the statement, before realizing what it is that he’s doing.

It takes less than a second for the Sorting Hat to begin speaking once it has been secured on Granger’s curly head. “Ah. Right, then. Hm . . . right. Okay. Gryffindor!” Granger bursts into an enormous, sunny smile, and hops off the stool with renewed vigor, an infuriating spring in her step. The applause from the Gryffindor table is deafening. Draco can’t help but sneer at the sight. 

The clapping eventually dies down. McGonagall reads the next name off the list. “Malfoy, Draco!” 

Draco is confident that he will be sorted to Slytherin, but that notion does not expel the inkling of dread that he feels. He sits down slowly, and McGonagall places the Sorting Hat onto his head. 

Before the Sorting Hat even fully touches his hair, it bellows out, “Slytherin!” Draco’s mouth turns up at the corners, and the self-assured air that surrounds him only thickens as he’s met with the cheers of his new housemates.

As he makes his way to the Slytherin table, he hears Weasley say, “There’s not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.” Weasley’s words are coated with cruelty and distaste, though they are not meant for Draco alone. That somehow makes it worse.

McGonagall calls out the next name as Draco prepares to sit down. “Potter, Harry?”

Almost immediately, the chatter stops. Seemingly a thousand pairs of eyes are trained on Potter, Draco included. No other child thus far had been given so much attention. Then again, no other child had ever survived an Unforgivable Curse.

The Sorting Hat is placed on Potter’s head. “Hm. Difficult . . . very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh, yes, and a thirst to prove yourself. But, where to put you?”

Draco can’t hear what Potter is saying, but he’s mouthing something, over and over, as if to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. 

The Sorting Hat speaks again, an answer to Draco’s question. “Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know. It’s all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there’s no doubt about that.”

The crowd titters, though all Draco can hear at his table is approval. He nods along.

“No? Well, if you’re sure, better be . . . Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindors are stunned into silence for a single second before a roar is torn from the heart of the table. Most of them stand, clapping furiously, as The Boy Who Lived leaves the stool behind and makes his way towards his new housemates. His grin is brilliant and incorrigible.

Draco does not clap.

The raucous atmosphere finally stills when McGonagall calls, “Weasley, Ronald!”

Draco watches Weasley intently as he mounts the stool, a glint of nervousness in his eye. The Sorting Hat seems to take a deep breath before it begins to speak. “Ha! Another Weasley. I know just what to do with you!” He pauses, as if watching the children that stare back earnestly. “Gryffindor!”

The relieved look on Weasley’s face is maddening. He is welcomed by his brothers, as well as Potter and the Granger girl. The Sorting Ceremony concludes with little fanfare, and Dumbledore stands to speak.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall. Congratulations to you all. It is now time to enjoy the excellent feast that has been prepared for you.” With a flourish of his hand, a mountain of delicacies appear on each table. Draco can see a tray of strawberry tarts, some roast chicken, and more pie than he could ever imagine eating. He piles as much as he can onto his plate.

Sitting in front of him is Wealsey. The tables truly are in close proximity to one another, far too near to be comfortable. A drumstick in each hand, Weasley is gnawing away like he’d never seen a bloody chicken before. Though, based on what Father has told him, it’s likely this is the first big meal he has ever had; the Weasleys have far more children than they can afford.

Draco cuts into a slice of meat, his eyes still trained on the spectacle that is Weasley. He’s laughing with his mouth wide open, and mushy, chewed bits of chicken seem to spray back onto his plate with every exhale. Potter hands him a napkin. Granger tells him to shut his mouth.

Draco grimaces quietly. He spears a tiny square of meat with his fork, placing it onto his tongue before turning to Goyle.

***

He hears nothing but Weasley’s deranged shriek as he grabs Draco by his collar and slams him down within the stands. He hits his head on the dusty wood, feels Weasley’s hands clamp down hard on his shoulders. Draco moves to sit up, but Weasley wrestles him unyieldingly to the ground.

Draco blinks, his sharp silver eyes struggling to focus on the blur of red above him. He can feel Weasley’s weight on his legs, and there is a hot, stinging pain centered on his cheek. Weasley had hit him hard enough to bruise. Draco seems to have drawn out some kind of intense, animalistic impulse in Weasley, an unexpected yet searing anger in his features. He has never seen Weasley so astonishingly focused, so calculated in his ferocity—Weasley hits him again, this time a blow to the stomach.

Draco squeezes the air out of his lungs with a pained grunt, then rolls to his side, taking Weasley with him. Now on top, Draco holds him down with a firm hand on his chest. His other curls into a fist, and he smashes it into Weasley’s mouth with as much strength as he can possibly muster. As if on cue, a cheer erupts from the spectators around them, and Draco wonders if Gryffindor has just scored.

Blood warms Draco's knuckles, though there is very little of it. Weasley’s lip has split open, a small tear near the center of his cupid’s bow. Weasley wipes at his mouth, and it’s as though the frustration, the unimaginable weight of his fury, boils over. Draco sees nothing but clarity and intention in Weasley’s wide blue eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he is reminded of himself.

The recognition is gone the instant Weasley’s knuckles connect with Draco’s left eye. The force of it is incredible; Draco’s skin simply gives away to Weasley’s fist, as if it is a stone plunged into a dark stream. Draco screams, his voice lost in the immense roar of the crowd. Weasley is ruthless as he pummels Draco’s face. A sickening  _ crack _ is heard as his nose breaks, and a gush of hot blood pours down to his mouth. Weasley slowly climbs off of Draco, a distant look on his freckled face.

“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” Draco can hear Granger’s shrill, grating voice in his vicinity, and it bounces around in his skull, leaving a streak of pain with every reverberation. He doesn’t hear Weasley’s response, and is unsure of whether he even offers one.

Before Potter can even climb off his broomstick to meet his friends, Draco slips out of consciousness. He feels a thick black fog rush into his head, numb his cheek, stomach, eyelids. That darkness doesn’t leave him, not for a long time.

***

Draco’s vision is clouded by the filthy windows of Hagrid’s residence, but he can hear its inhabitants with minimal difficulty. Weasley is unsurprisingly the loudest as he practically shouts, “That’s not just a dragon, that’s a Norwegian Ridgeback! My brother Charlie works with these in Romania.”

Hagrid’s rough voice replaces Weasley’s as he says, “Isn’t he beautiful? Oh, bless him. Look! He knows his mummy. Hello, Norbert.”

Draco wrinkles his nose.  _ Mummy?  _

Potter speaks next, “Norbert?”

Hagrid tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, well, he’s gotta have a name, don’t he? Don’t you, Norbert?” Draco makes an embarrassingly loud noise as he watches the tiny dragon breathe a stream of white fire, signing Hagrid’s raggedy beard. “He’ll have to be trained up a bit, of course.” He pauses, turning to face the window. There is a horrifying moment, one that happens almost in slow motion, in which Draco locks eyes with Hagrid. “Who’s that?”

Ron glances over to where Hagrid’s gaze is fixed. Potter sighs. “Malfoy.”

Hagrid strokes behind the dragon’s head, an odd curl gracing his mouth. “Oh, dear.”

Draco panics, and he runs. He pushes himself away from the window, placing one foot in front of the other in a rapid, frenzied fashion. He has to find McGonagall.

***

Draco can see the faint glow of their torches as he advances towards the trio, McGonagall in tow. He hears Weasley lament, “And worse, Malfoy knows.”

Granger replies, “I don’t understand. Is that bad?”

Weasley’s high voice almost breaks when he whispers, “It’s bad.”

McGonagall steps forward before Draco can say anything. “Nothing, I repeat, nothing, gives a student the right to walk about at night. Therefore, as punishment for your actions, fifty points will be taken.”

Potter speaks for the first time, his eyes comically huge behind his glasses. “Fifty?”

McGonagall holds her head high, regarding the four of them steelily, though Draco swears he can detect a hint of weariness. “Each. And to ensure it doesn’t happen again, all four of you will receive detention.”

The smug look slips right off of Draco’s face. “Excuse me, Professor, perhaps I heard you wrong. I thought you said the four of us.”

McGonagall focuses all her attention on him, her gaze rigid and dark. Draco takes a tentative step back. “No, you heard me correctly, Mr. Malfoy. You see, as honorable as your intentions were, you, too, were out of bed after hours. You will join your classmates in detention.”

Draco whirls around to face the trio, as if to say  _ this is all your fault _ . Only Weasley returns Draco’s look, and his clear blue eyes are relentless.

Filch, the musty old groundskeeper, appears seemingly out of thin air. He holds Mrs. Norris tightly in his long, grimy arms. Her red eyes bore into Draco, and he blinks rapidly in an effort to expel the intensity of her gaze. Filch starts walking away from the castle, and McGonagall motions for them to follow. Filch grins, displaying rotting, yellow teeth, and spits, “A pity they let the old punishments die. Was a time detention found you hanging by your thumbs in the dungeons. God, I miss the screaming.”

Within a few moments, they approach the thick brush of trees that constitute the Dark Forest. It’s a warm night, but Draco can’t stop shivering. “You’ll be serving detention with Hagrid tonight. He’s got a little job to do inside the Dark Forest.” Filch shifts his attention to Hagrid, who holds some kind of weapon that Draco struggles to identify. It’s not exactly the kind of thing one would see in class. “A sorry lot, this, Hagrid.”

In lieu of response, Hagrid sniffles, and Draco realizes, with a start, that he has been crying. His eyes are bloodshot, visible even amidst the darkness. Draco knows he should feel some kind of remorse, but he doesn’t, not when he has an imminent date with Death himself. “Good God, you’re not still on about that bloody dragon, are you?” Filch sneers.

Hagrid looks at the four children, in turn, before meeting Filch’s beady eyes. “Norbert’s gone. Dumbledore sent him off to Romania to live in a colony.”

Granger, ever the optimist, perks up at this. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” She offers, “He’ll be with his own kind.”

Hagrid bleeds resignation as he responds, “Yeah, but what if he don’t like Romania? What if the other dragons are mean to him? He’s only a baby, after all.”

Filch snorts. “Oh, for God’s sake, pull yourself together, man. You’re going into the Forest, after all. Got to have your wits about you.”

Draco freezes. “The Forest? I thought that was a joke. We can’t go in there. Students aren’t allowed. And there are . . . werewolves.” Beneath his robes, Draco sweats profusely. His cheeks are warm, his blood rushing in trepidation. 

Filch nearly barks with laughter. “Oh, there’s more than werewolves in those trees, lad. You can be sure of that.” Draco feels lightheaded, like all his blood’s turned to lead in his feet. “Nighty-night.”

Filch retreats into the darkness, Mrs. Norris still clutched tightly in his arms. Hagrid sighs. “Right. Let’s go.”

Their trek into the forest is silent, save for the occasional murmur between the trio or the snap of a twig splintering underfoot. Draco then sees a hunched white mass in the mulch, mammoth and unmoving. He steps behind the trio, and Potter asks, “Hagrid, what is that?”

Hagrid kneels beside the creature, dipping his fingers into the carcass. “What we’re here for. See that?” He holds up his hand, his index and middle finger coated in a fluorescent, almost holographic, silver liquid. “That’s unicorn blood, that is. I found one dead a few weeks ago. Now, this one’s been hurt bad by something. So, it’s our job to go and find the poor beast. Ron, Hermione, you’ll come with me. And, Harry, you’ll go with Malfoy.” Draco resolutely ignores the dark shadow treading menacingly between the trees, and hones in on Hagrid’s enormous, drooling dog.

Draco looks at Weasley, then Potter. “Okay. Then I get Fang.”

Hagrid sniffles before acquiescing. “Fine. Just so you know, he’s a bloody coward.”

Weasley, Granger, and Hagrid retreat first, heading left into an enormous expanse of gnarled trees. He watches them go, and he swears Weasley mutters a nasty remark about Draco under his breath, something about a stupid, bloody coward. 

***

The Great Hall is buzzing with the kind of energy that Draco can feel humming under his skin. The floating candles bathe the room in gold, casting a sheen of brilliance on all that they touch. From the ceiling hang delicate green banners, bearing the intricate, twisted serpent emblem of Slytherin. Draco feels light, like hot air is drifting up below him, carrying him to the sky. He fiddles with his ring, tracing the coiled snake carved deeply into the metal. Dumbledore starts to speak, and a hush falls over the Hall. “And in first place, with four hundred seventy-two points, Slytherin house.”

Draco claps a hand onto Crabbe’s shoulder. He’s so overwhelmed that his stomach is in knots, his face blushed red with fire. “Nice one, mate!” 

He can feel Weasley looking at him. He’s not even trying to hide it, that curious, almost contemptuous, look in his eyes, like he’s got a problem in his head that he simply can’t solve. Draco stares right back, leaning his chin onto his fist. 

The laughter and noise trickles away. Dumbledore nods to himself, then continues. “Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin. Well done. However, recent events must be taken into account. And I have a few last-minute points to award.”

Draco shifts his elbows back, folding his hands in his lap. Goyle is no longer smiling, and many of the older Slytherins are whispering hurriedly amongst themselves. Dread builds in Draco’s stomach like coarse sand in a storm. 

“To Miss Hermione Granger, for the cool use of intellect while others were in grave peril . . . fifty points.” Hermione sits up, as if she’s been awoken abruptly from her stupor. It is clear that the kids in Gryffindor are as gobsmacked as the Slytherins. 

“Second, to Mr. Ronald Weasley, for the best-played game of chess that Hogwarts has seen these many years. Fifty points.” Weasley’s mouth hangs open, and he mouths  _ me? _ to his housemates, all of which nod vigorously. Draco clenches his hands into fists on either side of his body. 

“And third, to Mr. Harry Potter, for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points.” Potter smiles, though he is not nearly as surprised as Granger and Weasley are. Potter is evidently used to receiving things he does not deserve.

Granger is so disgustingly excited that it makes Draco sick. “We’re tied with Slytherin!” She can barely hold herself together, and the fervor is spreading to the rest of the Gryffindors. Percy Weasley looks as though he’s moments away from completely blacking out.

Dumbledore has yet to finish. “And, finally, it takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends. I award ten points to Neville Longbottom. Assuming that my calculations are correct, I believe that a change in decoration is in order. Gryffindor wins the House Cup.” Longbottom sits motionless as the emerald flags transform into the deep red of Gryffindor. The Gryffindor table explodes into a mess of yellow and scarlet; somebody shrieks, another child drops his plate in his hurry to stand up. No one at the Slytherin table has moved, nor said a word, in the last ten minutes.

Draco is stricken into a ghastly silence. He can feel the telltale burn of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He snatches the pointed black hat off his head, tossing it weakly onto the table, and fits his face into the crook of his elbow. He cries because it’s so immeasurably cruel. He cries because he was so close.


End file.
